


you can’t go to work (because I need cuddles)

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Cassian Andor-centric, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Lazy Mornings, Leia Organa-centric, Mando'a, Romantic Fluff, Senator Leia Organa, Short & Sweet, Stand Alone, a little more poetic of a style from me, based on a tumblr ask, implied romantic content of a physical nature, space languages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 17:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: A sweet moment between a princess-turned-senator and her spy-turned-guard-turned lover. There's a quiet time that comes rarely for the two of them, a moment between waking and work, where they can speak a language they're only just learning together. One of tenderness, of care, of love.Standalone story. Title come from thewholesome domestic promptslist on Tumblr written by Snogfairy.





	you can’t go to work (because I need cuddles)

_The Senator’s chrono starts beeping at 0500. The harsh noise echoes in her luxurious Senatorial apartment, which, until that moment had been serenely quiet, filled with only the soft rhythm of sleepers’ breath, a language of gentle inhales and exhales rarely spoken in this room, where sleeplessness and nightmares prevail far too often. Heavy Onderon silk curtains, dyed to be the purple-blue of twilight on that planet, cloaked the massive window on the far side of the apartment. Technology, no less expensive, although certainly less tactile, coursed through the a window screens, muffling out all sounds of the Coruscant traffic below._

_The apartment is silent, though it is still scented with the piquant tang of spices uncommonly found senatorial apartments. Not scare due to their price, indeed, one could buy a lifetime supply of the dried Festian peppers for the cost of one strip of Onderon silk, but rather, for their provence. Few senators, even in this new time of peace, have any interest in seeking out the culinary delights of the desolate Outer Rim. Fewer have ever ventured there. But the occupants of the the room, the one who owns it and the one who protects her, have lived most of their lives, in one way or another, among those wild and dangerous planets. To one of them, the peppers are the taste of home, and to the other, they offer the intimacy of a shared secret she’s desperate to learn more of. She’d eat a thousand peppers, if it meant she could learn one ounce of the childhood of the man who’d cooked them for her._

_The source of the mouthwatering smell is both from the small kitchenette, where the peppers had been roasted, skinned, sliced and placed on flatbread, and from the small sitting room area, where they’d been enjoyed. Indeed, all the remnants of a late night meal, the sort made in both haste and hunger, lay on the tray above the small glass table, in front of the oddly out-of of place couch. With its faded pillows and clunky design, no one might guess that fashion-disaster of a couch is the owner’s favorite piece of furniture. No one, except, perhaps, the owner of the equally faded, brown jacket, least-faded over the left shoulder where once an Alliance rank badge sat, draped with familiarity over a corner of the couch. The jacket itself carries a thousand stories from missions and battles, though few of them are worth mentioning now, in this time of peace. At least, that’s what the owner of the jacket would like to be the case. He keeps the garment because it is all he knows, all he’s truly comfortable in, but the memories it offers keep him awake on far too many nights._

_As to why that person, so fastidious in his neatness, acting with enough military precision that even his datapad left on the table is placed at a ninety-degree angle, and powered down to its most secure power-saving mode, would be so hasty to have left out crumbs from that dinner, Well, that answer probably lies somewhere between the empty bottle of wine on the table, and the two glasses, one still bearing the faint pink kiss of the senator’s now-famous shade of lipstain._

_One can easily follow the story from there, just by following the path of discarded garments. The coat is but a precursor to other items that followed. Almost all of them, though, are the trappings of a woman long-comfortable with the idea of clothing as power and layers as protection. A cardigan, knit from hearty banthawool, rests on the floor quite near the couch. The owner has switched to that blend for knit materials after learning how much the jacket-owner dislikes the feel of gaberwool under his callused hands._

_Gaberwool, after all, like so many other luxuries, had been claimed by the Empire, subjected to its whims. So the senator wears banthawool to fend off the chill of over-climate-controlled rooms, wears it despite (or perhaps because) of its simple origins, its humble appearance, its warmth. The sweater is loose, as is all things she wears these days, but surprisingly undecorated. That has more to do with the nubby fuzz of bantha wool yarn rendering complex cabling or lace patterns impossible, and less to to with the Senator's personal taste, as evidenced by the next item on the floor._

_That is a sash for a gown, dip-dyed to hold blues like the oceans of her long-forgotten home, blue, her mother’s favorite color, and historically, on that planet now lost forever, the color of peace. The dress, which rests only a few feet away, also bears faint blue embroidery, though barely discernible over the sheer-white overlay, like frost on a window. For white is the color of royalty, but also, of mourning. And the last princess of Alderaan must, at least in public, mourn the loss of her planet forever._

_However, one can read smaller clues, the sartorial story is not one merely of loss. There is hope in the princess yet. Hope, blue like the embroidery, yes, and the ribbons adorning the shoulders of the gown. But more subtly, it can be found in the earrings, discarded, but far more carefully, laid to rest on a small shelf nearby. Those appear to be carved from wood chips, a unique fashion choice to anyone who has not seen the way the Princess smiles among the woodlands of Endor. At the end of the woodchip which had been carved with skill, although, clearly more used to applying tools to droid’s wires, there is a tiny suspended bit of blue glass, made smooth by tumbling with rocks, the way the ocean might. That too, might be strange, a too-simple false gemstone, But if one had seen the tears in her eyes, brighter than any sasho gem, when she’d broken the simple vase given to her a lifetime ago by her father, well, then perhaps the mystery of those shards of glass might make sense._

_Even if the maker of those earrings did not realize the last sartorial message, the most private and yet, perhaps the most hopeful, out of the whole ensemble now decorating the floor of that rich apartment. Because the blue sash had been closed with both a knot and a small, simple buckle. The knot is a classic Alderaanian closed-heart-knot, most commonly worn as a hairstyle, and a clear sign the wearer is uninterested in any romantic overtures, as she is very content with that which she has. The Senator had worn it in her hair a few times, but given how the man who made her the earrings and makes sure she is guarded is feverishly studying Alderaanian hair styles and the messages they convey, to better assist her with the intense daily task of braiding her chestnut waves into all the different buns and twists, she’s moved that knot to a more subtle place on her belt._

_The buckle is an equally subtle, silent message. Made of pink-hue gold, and in the shape of a starblossom, a flower which meant only one thing in the language used by the florists of that planet. (Of course, the earring-maker might scoff at any planet having enough time and luxury to create a language communicated only by bouquet, but perhaps if he knew the meaning, he would not) Because pink, worn so rarely by the Senator, at least, in the past, is the color of hope, and a starblossom means only one thing. Love._

_So that is the story one can translate from the the clothes on the floor, which reaches its natural conclusion with the high-heeled Mushin leather shoes, flung off and discarded into the corners of the room, and the pair of battered old military boots, old enough to be Rebellion-issued, and not provided by the New Republic’s quartermaster, set neatly at the foot of the bed. Other than those, the only evidence of the soldier’s clothes are the trousers, folded precisely and left within arms reach of the left side of the bed, and the heavy belt, complete with empty holster._

_The blaster remains underneath his pillow, a fact that might be concerning, if it was the only one tucked safely into the confines of the bed. But underneath the Senator’s own pillow lies a holdout blaster as well. The two of them, the sleek, silent ELG-3A, fashionable in its own lethal way, and the modular, ever-adaptable, and yet battle-marked, well-used, deadly A280-CFE, might tell us far more about the occupants of the bed than any other bit of clothing, wine glass, or crumbs of food._

_They are a pair, matched not in style nor in origin, but in purpose and skill. Neither blaster is one favored by beginners, nor is either one currently in vogue among those who enjoy sport-shooting in the New Republic. Relics of the past, burned with ozone scorch marks from shots fired to secure a more peaceful future. The weapons remain, for both of them, out of sight, but never out of reach. A language of protection, for each other, and one they are both quite fluent in._

* * *

 

At 0505, the alarm starts up again. A low, simple beep, far calmer than the evacuation sirens both of the still mostly-sleeping lovers have heard far too many times in their life. Quieter than the countdown alerts of countless near-death moments, gentler than the drone of ship motors kicking desperately into life, trying to get them to safety. Here, in this bed, in this moment, the two have no need of running for shelter, of searching for safety. They’ve found it in each other’s arms. So, exactly one second later, an elegant hand, nails painted that same secret-joy pink, shoots out, and silences the chrono.

 

“Doesn’t count, still went off,” The voice of one of the Rebellion least-well-known heroes (by his own choice) mumbles. “C’mon. Morning.”

 

“No.”

 

“Leia.” His voice is thick with sleep, his Festian accent all the stronger like wine before its’ watered, and, with less of his careful guarded speech on display, he lingers intimately on the musicality of her name..

 

“Shhh, go back to sleeeep,” she draws out the word, rendered a little silly by the early morning, Turns in her blankets and presses her face into his chest, breathing in the way his shirt still smells like fresh soap, standard issued and crisp, in contrast to the floral-bright scent of his hair, though that’s decidedly her fault, since she’s yet to remember to stock a shamboo not suited for her. These moments, these mornings and showers taken together, are still new enough to not yet have a pattern, nor a plan. .

 

“Leia.”

 

“No.” Her arm slides around his narrow waist for good measure, keeping him there.

 

His lips brush over her forehead, his beard tickling, and she feels the slightest bit of his smile alongside his kiss. It’s enough to make her absolutely positive she's not stirring from bed, not anytime soon. Even when he says, “you can’t just deny your way out of the morning.” .

 

“Can too.”

 

Cassian rolls in bed  then,  a tactical maneuver turned romantic, like so many of his, so he’s flat on his back, holding her. “And if I pull the blankets away and let you freeze?”.

 

“I’ll scream for my guard.” 

 

“Ah, yes, and what will he do?”.

 

“Keep me nice and warm?” She lifts her head to steal a kiss from the guard in question, the only one she thinks she’ll ever need. His beard is extra bristly in the morning, one of those small surprises she’s learning as they take on this new language together, one of kisses and intimate mornings. “Like he always does.”.

 

“You have a very long-suffering and generous guard, true.”

 

“I should pay him more then,” she captures him in a second, deeper kiss. “What do you think his going rate is?”.

 

“Oh, I believe it was more than paid last night,” he teases, his hands spanning her waist, holding her with all the comfortable trust that has existed between them for so long. Long enough that when trust met desire, when both were unlocked by a moment of passion, the two become lovers so easily, so completely, so simply. Indeed, their time spent together in bed (or, admittedly, on a couch or seat of a U-Wing) might be the only simple thing in their lives, which makes them both treasure it all the more. His kiss in return captures all of that adoration. “Breakfast?” he finally asks, his voice now husky with more desire than sleep. 

 

“Caf.”

 

“Mm. And protein.” He slips out of bed, tugging on his trousers and then his belt, though he leaves the blaster behind, a mark of his own happiness here in this little apartment more than any other.

 

While he cooks, humming softly to himself, Leia leans over to select her own datapad. While he fries eggs, his attention is anywhere but his datapad, until it beeps with a new alert. He waits a moment, adding the eggs to the plates of food, then crosses the room for it. His brow furrows. “Did you just… did you delete my entire agenda?”

 

“Only for today.” Tomorrow, they'd go back to work. Tomorrow, there would be documents and guns and who know what else. Another day, another battle, as it had been for both of them for so long. “No work today. I need cuddles.”

 

That makes him shoot an utterly disbelieving look at her, brow furrowed, lips in a narrow line. Leia just winks at him. He mouths the word cuddles with disbelief that slowly turns to a smile. He knows her as senator, as Rebellion commander, as princess, but he’s only now learning her as the sweet, giggly woman she can be as a lover. “Fine. One day off.”

 

“Oh, now you’re the boss?” she shoots back. 

 

“You didn’t object to my… _leadership_ last night,” he retorts, making her blush all the more as he fetches the meal and brings it to them. It smells amazing, and he looks even more so, with his rumbled shirt, tousled hair, and soft, teasing smile. 

 

“I’ll do the dishes,” she says, because she’ll never stop being appreciative of his cooking, of the ways he shows his affection. Of him. 

 

He kisses her cheek. “I enjoy cooking. It’s much better having someone to share it with.” They dig into their breakfast, made of fried strips of the last night’s flatbread, soaked in a rich, spicy sauce, and topped with perfectly cooked eggs, yellow yolks running like beams of sunlight. The food he cooks too, is a language, though one Leia feels woefully understudied in, every dish telling a story, every spoonful a message.

* * *

 

Afterward, Leia fetches her small silver comm, knowing that even a day spent in bed requires some work and planning. “Amilyn?” Leia asks, holding down the button to speak, and is delighted to hear the other woman’s voice.

 

“Good morning, sunlight!”

 

“How did you know to say good morning?” The chrono now shows an embarrassingly late time for someone who is usually dressed and out the door by 0600.

 

“Because you sound like you just woke up. Beside, isn’t morning just a construct on this planet? There’s so much pollution, how are we to know when the sun rises and when…”

 

“Ami… I’m calling to _escape_ work for once. Please. Pollution talk tomorrow.”

 

“Only if you promise to do something with nature today. Connect to its healing power. Talk to that fern I got you.”

 

There's a small snort from Cassian’s side of the bed. The fern is as dead as the Death Star, as the expression now goes. Still, Leia says, “Ah. Yes. I will.”

 

“You killed it, didn’t you.”

 

“Only… a little?”

 

“Well, that in it’s own way is a connection to nature, is it not? The reminder of its ever-present nearness, the beauty of its…”

 

“Inevitability?” Leia quotes the sing-song poem back at her old friend, having heard the phrasing many times before. “I shall be very reminded, all day today, I promise. In the meantime, would you comm me if anything goes to a vote?”

 

“It’s doubtful anything will. We’ve already had a three hour recess for sub divisional meetings.”

 

That’s met with a stifled groan from the other side of the bed. Leia agrees, completely. Sub-divisionals meant non-stop bickering between planetary systems that had just enough in common to absolutely hate each other. The conversation wraps up shortly after that, though its enough time for Cassian to clear the plates and rinse the dishes, a fact that means she’ll have to find another way to thank him.

 

“So what are we going to do with this day?” he asks, returning with mugs of caf, each one made to the way the like it (hers, dark, unsweetened, his, the opposite). Once he sets the mugs down, keeping the chipped one for himself, he leans over her, skillfully twisting her hair into the most common hairstyle she wears. As much as she loves having her hair down around him, pretending to be nothing but his lover, it’s nice too, to feel his fingers so soft against her scalp, so skilled at making the twisted buns.

 

Plus, she knows he does this for a practical reason as well, as most of his gentle touches always are. If anyone was to knock at the door, she could answer with all the dignity of a senator who’d stepped away from work for a moment, not a woman who’d abandoned work for a day of lazy pleasure with him. They speak the language of subterfuge, of carefully tailored falsehoods just as well as they speak honesty to each other, under their blankets and in quiet moments.

 

“Let’s watch a holofilm?” She curls up next to him in her bed, which had always seemed too big, too luxurious, and only now, with him in it, feels just right. “Here.” she sets the datapad down between them, showing the various holos available for streaming. “There’s a newly released remake of _Passion’s Toil Astray_.”

 

“I didn’t even know there was an original.”

 

“It’s a classic High Aurebesh tragedy.”

 

“Everything written in that language is a linguistic tragedy.” He stretches his arms, before comfortably wrapping one around her waist, holding her even as she scowls at him. The expression can’t last long, of course, even if he has no appreciation for classical works of literature. He taps on the datapad, searching through the holos with the same expression he used to wear when reading dossiers. “What about this?”

 

“Battlecry of the Damned?” Leia’s eyebrow arches at the title. “It’s in Mando’a.”

 

 _“Bic cuyi jate_.”

 

 _“Besom atin_ ,” Leia mutters, not as familiar with the language as him, but knowing enough to have certainly called him stubborn. Stubborn enough, she thinks, to have never mentioned to her whatever missions he’d been on that required full fluency in Mandalorian.

 

“ _Gedet’ye?_ ” he whispers, kissing her neck as he asks, _please,_ the combination of both almost enough to undo her completely. Almost, but not completely, given how often Mandalorian dramas are prone to long boring historical voice-overs and diagramed depictions of ancient battlefields.

 

“Mm. What about this one?” Leia selects another from her to-watch list of educational programming. It’s quite a long list, and not watched nearly as often as it had been when her nights had been lacking in his company.

 

“A documentary on Ubese techo-flutists?”

 

“I could use it to brush up my Ubese."

 

“ _Shay hhu taya shaytu._ ” Cassian scoffs.

 

“It is not an easy language, thank you very much, Captain Andor,” Leia snaps, but in that teasing way, the color high on her cheeks. She adds a few Ubese insults to the end of her phrase. “Threepio and I worked for ages on it.”

 

“Ah yes, for that… _plan_.” There are few things Cassian says as dryly as the word plan in relationship to the mission to rescue Han from Jabba’s Palace. Really, the only other word he ever says with remotely the same level of disdain is _Solo._

 

Leia just laughs and kisses him, telling him with action, if not with words, that he's the only one for her these days. “Fine. This one.” She taps on one more holodrama, this one showing a depiction of an underwater city made entirely of seashells.

 

“That’s in Mu’diii? If I scanned that right.”

 

“Neither of us know it. It’ll be a fun challenge. Let’s see who can follow along better.”

 

There’s a spark of competitive interest in his brown eyes, matched by his tone in Ubese. “ _Yatoh, cha._ ”

 

“I’m glad you agree,” Leia responds in Basic, kissing him one more time. Wishing he’d share some of Festian with her, the way they bounce around all the other languages they know. Yet, also understanding some things, like her choice of belt buckle, his past, are topics neither of them are ready to offer the other. Not yet. They know many languages fluently, can bluff or charm their way through far more, but two remain quite out of reach for them, no matter how many times a coded phrase slips through. For Cassian, it is the past he cannot give voice to, and for Leia, it is the love that she cannot name. In time, perhaps, the two will learn those languages, just as they have learned so much about each other. In time, perhaps, they won’t need words at all, will tell each other volumes with just a look, share a lifetime in a kiss.

 

For now, the two lovers settle in, wrapped in blankets, and watch a holomovie, as comfortable, as simple, as warm, as they’ve both dreamed of being for so long. Neither one had known how to speak that wish, and yet, wordlessly, they’d found their answer, together.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by both a prompt and Serial Napper on Tumblr's ask!  
> This fic technically fits into the [Hope Carried Long Series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1230014%22) but as I wanted to write it as a standalone, I'm not going to add it to the series masterpost for a little bit.  
> Comments very welcomed and many thanks to Serial Napper for the ask and the RogueOne server for the help!


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